


The C-Value Paradox

by orphan_account



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, M/M, Rape, Starvation, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:25:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q doesn't know why Silva has taken him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Without a beta and very much open to constructive criticism. If you see a mistake please point it out and I will be very grateful! Thank you.

"They just don't have the time for us." Silva's voice was a wistful, canting sigh. He was looking up at the ceiling as if looking for some sort of divine answers. The only thing that interrupted the silence was the quiet hum of electricals hidden away out of sight. "But, you know, that's how it is. We're just small things. Small, tiny things. Just numbers in the system." He turned to face Q and his smile became dangerous. "Just letters."  
  
Q said nothing, careful to look blank, careful to avoid Silva's heavy eyes. Bravado, false or not, was all well and good if you were in the films or knew exactly what you were doing, but Q was neither a field agent trained to withstand interrogation nor in a film, and he kept his mouth firmly shut. Behind him, wrists tied tight to the back of the chair with something thin and plastic – cable ties? – his fingers knotted themselves in useless anxiety. He wasn't good with pain, he never had been. A badly stubbed toe was the worst he'd dealt with for years and the thought of systematic torture made his bones ache in unpleasant sympathy.  
  
He didn't remember how he'd got here, wherever here was, but it must have been long enough ago that they knew he was missing. And they must be coming because the information in his head that was not only important but poorly guarded.  
  
Surely. That must be the case. Surely. They wouldn't leave him here to lose their secrets, because he would, because his right to be cocky in the lab by no means at all extended to anywhere else where he wasn't with a computer running at his beck and call. The best training in the world couldn’t guarantee the withstand against torture and the training given to those in Q branch was not the best by any measure.  
  
Silva leant a little closer and Q pulled at his wrists without meaning to. The plastic bonds did nothing but dig into his skin and bite the flesh there painfully. His jaw was clenched hard enough that he could feel his teeth grind. He could feel sweat in the palm of his hands, making them cold, and on his back to stick his shirt to the skin there.  
  
He hadn't signed up for this. He'd been offered a desk job and laboratory work. The thought of death, of torture – or, considering Bond's report, rape – it terrified him.  
  
"They've given us some time together. Buying some for themselves, hm? Yours for theirs." Silva was looking at him, watching for a reaction, voice openly curious. "What do you think of that?"  
  
Q swallowed his remark and its ten derivatives. He didn't know what Silva wanted so trying to bluster might well end up in giving whatever it was to him. Whatever it was. Q didn’t know.  
  
There was only one exit from the room, a closed and locked door. He stared at it and tried to force himself to remember what was on the other side, but Silva's words were too loud and his shoulders too broad to see past.  
  
Silva cocked his head, clearly waiting for a reply, and Q felt sick.  
  
"I see that you're going to be the silent type. Boring. I didn't waste all that time bringing you here for this. Really, I didn't." Risking a glance at the man Q caught a furrowing brow and looked away again quickly. His short fingernails were digging into the flesh at the base of his thumb and he couldn't stop himself from jolting in surprise when Silva stood, knocking his own chair back inches on the rough concrete ground.  
  
"No ‘what will you do with me’, no ‘what do you want’." Silva pitched his voice into an insulting falsetto and received pronunciation, mocking as he turned to stalk away then pace back again. Q could feel his pulse in his ears and racing through his chest. His lungs felt caught, throat tight. Sweat on his hands. How did agents manage this? "Not even clever remarks. Nothing! Nothing! I might as well be speaking to an idiot, a vegetable. I take the best mommy could find and this is it?"  
  
Q didn't say anything and only just managed to close his eyes before the open handed slap snapped his head to one side and sent his glasses to clatter to the floor. He couldn't stop the small, soft noise, barely audible over the sound of the impact, and he blinked up at the suddenly indistinct figure in front of him. His breath was panting out of his nose, lips still tightly sealed and jaw aching for it. He couldn't see Silva's expression, only that he'd fallen still, and wished desperately that he could. The world without his glasses was not precise enough, lacking what few clean lines of data it usually had.  
  
His cheek stung. He could feel heat radiate from it; he'd never been slapped before, not properly, and as he looked down to the dark smudge on the floor that he assumed to be his glasses he distantly considered that it hadn't been so bad. Q refrained from saying so. His heartbeat was still loud in his head and far too fast.  
  
"I can see you thinking, him, he doesn't like to be ignored, yes? That's what you're thinking. But no. I just want to talk. A conversation, just a conversation. That's all." Silva walked to stand behind him and out of sight. He put a rough hand in Q's hair, fingers combing through the thick curls even as Q jumped then tensed in unpleasant surprise. They pulled out the tangles none too gently then returned to rest, heavy, on the top of his skull like a man petting his dog. "I could make you scream, and scream. You know this, of course you do. And you still won't talk?"  
  
Q kept still, hating the hand in all of its possessiveness, and didn't speak. His thoughts were sliding into panic no matter how hard he clung to them. All he could think about was torture, torture and how strong and heavy the hand on his head was. How close the body behind. Perhaps he shouldn't have made the silence such an issue, but how had he been to know that Silva would fixate on it? He should say something. What should he say? What could he? Perhaps it would be better to remain silent – let Silva obsess over small things if it might distract him from the important ones.  
  
It wouldn't work, of course it wouldn't. Silva had been an agent. He knew interrogation. But it might buy some time.  
  
If what Silva had said about screaming had been genuine – Q forced himself not to shake the hand off of his head, keeping his breaths from tumbling into hyperventilation. He'd just have to survive as long as possible, however long that could be. He’d survive and recover to laugh over the lines as bad film villain clichés.  
  
Only all of the stories he'd heard about torture, only half exaggerated – the clichés didn’t seem so funny, nor bad. Thoughts of broken fingers, sliced down their length to split the bones, wouldn’t let him go. Kneecaps smashed, soles of the feet cut and broken in. Genitals burnt and ruined.  
  
The hand on his head was joined by another and each of Silva's palms slid down to cover an ear. Q flinched, unable not to, eyelids tightening half shut as the roughened fingertips pressed too close to his eyes. But they stopped for only bare seconds before carrying on down, flat against his skin, to come to rest on the bony curve where shoulder met neck. They nestled beneath the collar of Q's shirt.  
  
The hands were cool and broad, strong. The touch of breath was hot and humid against the back of his neck. Q shivered. 


	2. Chapter 2

Fingers tapped once against Q’s collar bones and slid away until they were barely touching the soft base of his neck, fingertips brushing the hairs there and making them stand on end. Then Silva sighed and took a step back; movement in the corner of Q’s eye turned his head before he could stop himself and he watched as Silva crouched to pick up something from the floor – his glasses, Q realised after a long second and with a faint stab of something churning in his belly, self-recrimination that he hadn’t recognised the motion instantly. He couldn’t afford to fall short on wits here. Definitely not so soon in the game – and it was a game, he had to think of it as just a game even when losing meant death and winning meant he could probably get away with being only lightly crippled and unable to so much as type.  
  
He clenched his hands to stop them from shaking; as Silva stood and turned to approach him he swung his head back quickly to the front. His neck felt stiff and he froze as Silva stood in front of him, shutting his eyes as his glasses were placed – surprisingly delicately – back onto his face, resting on the bridge of his nose without need for adjustment. Then to something akin to dread, or horror, Silva knelt down between Q’s legs with his knees folded neatly beneath him and arms resting on Q’s thighs. He looked up and smiled as their eyes met, wide mouthed.  
  
“I said it to double-o-seven. Bond,” he said, conversationally – Q's mind flickered through evey word he'd memorised from Bond's report, and came to an undeniable conclusion. “It was a joke, of course. But for you?” Silva’s mouth split into a grin, unpleasant. Q thought of his false teeth, the rotten away gums, as he couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to think about what was being referred to, blaringly obvious. ( _Rape_ ; the thought was both clear and loud in the back of his head. _He’s about to rape you._ Q ignored it).  
  
Then the hands were moving, curling around his thighs and then down, dragging heavy and slow.  They curled around so that his fingers of one hand were pressing into the back of Q's knee and the other hand was wrapped around his calf. They picked themselves up after bare seconds and halfway to Q’s crotch froze in mid-air, almost comical, as Q jerked once, violently, as he yanked his arms and kicking the bare centimetre that the ties around his ankles allowed. His breath had sped again and was loud in his nose, not enough, making him light headed. He turned to face the wall to his side and jerked away, futile, as Silva reached up to loosen his tie.  
  
“Oh? You don’t like the view?” Silva said from the side of his eye, hands still in the air as he ducked his head, eyelids lowered and shoulders slumped. The perfect picture of submission. Q felt sick. There was thick, bad tasting phlegm coating his throat that wouldn’t swallow. Silva lifted his eyes and grinned, then lent to mouth at the side of Q’s knee. “Perhaps,” he said into it, words hot and prickling against Q’s skin through the trousers even as his hands went to undo them, “you prefer it the other way around.”

The nails biting into his palm as hard as he could make them took nothing from the sensation of fingers stroking up the length of his flaccid cock through the fabric of his boxers. Q bucked his hips and the action turned into as full a body struggle as he could with ankles and wrists tied – somewhere in his head he knew it was useless but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t do anything right, like a line of broken code ruining everything.

This was all wrong: he wasn’t ever meant to be raped. That was what happened to field agents and women in the news. Other people, but not to him. The touch on his cock, returning the second after he fell still to pant shivering breaths – it was wrong. Disgusting and intrusive in a fundamental way that he hadn’t comprehended it could before. There was a pain running up his arms, up his neck, and as fingers tugged out his cock to stroke in short, gentle pulls Q twisted away again, yanking at his wrists and ankles. He couldn’t speak, thoughts still mired, tongue still stumbling.

This wasn’t meant to happen. Hands were pinning his hips down onto the hard surface of the chair and Silva leant forward to take the whole of Q’s cock into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around it, hollowing his cheeks to suck, and Q felt like vomiting. He was still limp but the hot wet touch was causing something unwanted to build up, something wrong, shameful and repulsive. Silva tilted back his head and let Q’s cock slide out fully past his lips, slicked in saliva, before bending back forward to caress the base with his lips and tongue.

This wasn’t meant to happen. Q’s breaths were coming in sobs as Silva took him into his mouth again and bobbed his head up and down, up and down, the friction making Q’s cock swell slowly, hatefully. It was when the tip of Silva’s tongue moved slowly around the edge of his foreskin, as if measuring it, that Q blurted out: “Stop.”  Silva didn’t stop, didn’t even slow his tempo, and Q pressed his eyes tight shut and tugged at his hands until the pain was almost enough to drown out worse sensations.

He couldn’t think at all. It felt like hours passing. The arousal had swollen into his cock and spread through his belly, heat and pleasure and disgust. In the split second that he could taste mucus salty from tears at the back of his throat, Silva pulled away to lap at his slit and Q’s hips bucked up into his mouth.

Silva made a small sound, a rumble, vibrating as his lips twisted into a smile and he swallowed Q entirely. Q bucked again, unable to stop himself no matter how hard he tried, and hated his body for that betrayal. He hated Silva, hated him deep until his bones and back teeth hurt with it. He hated himself in all his uselessness more.

Q came into the broad palm of Silva’s hand, sobbing and weak, pliant as the orgasm shook him. He flinched as that hand approached his face, but it only ruffled his hair, smearing ejaculate into the strands. Q let it, feeling too fragile, as if his bones might snap apart and shatter if they were bent even just a little. Then Silva stood, and if he tried to smile or sneer or otherwise communicate it was lost: Q pressed the side of his face into his shoulder as far as it could, and looked only at the floor. He was shaking, feeling exposed, pinned flat and ready for vivisection. The feeling didn’t leave even as Silva walked off to rattle in one of the drawers to one side of the room. If anything it got worse.

Then Silva returned and plucking the glasses off of Q’s face he wiped them with a small dark cloth. The cloth went in his jacket pocket, the glasses ever so gently back onto Q’s sweat and tear sticky face, now clear from their previous smudges. Q looked away, not able to meet Silva’s eyes, and wished he could scratch his way out of his skin, disgusting, itching thing that it was. He wished he could leave it tied the chair and crawl to somewhere out of sight, somewhere dark. In the room with only his hitched breaths to break the silence, Silva looking down on him with his hateful benevolent smile, Q hid his face in shame. The movement only put new smears onto his glasses. He felt pulverised, limbs broken, hollowed out and filled up with sand.

“Well,” Silva said mildly, as if he hadn’t just sucked off someone he was probably meant to be torturing, or holding for random, or putting a bullet through their useless head. “One word. It’s not quite a conversation, but, perhaps I can do better this time.”

He crouched down, back between Q’s legs. The dread that had just managed to let go of its cold grip on his insides returned, twisted around his gut, clenching. Q shook his head wordlessly.

The fingers on his cock were painful despite their light touch. He was oversensitive, still recovering. When he twisted, pulling at his tied wrists, there was a sudden sharp pain there; he clung to it. The alternative was to feel the slow friction teasing his cock into unwilling arousal. His body, his crotch and legs and belly felt exhausted, cleaned out and being squeezed for something more than wasn’t there. It felt like a finger at the back of his throat but with a gag reflex that refused to trip – scraping pain onto the soft tissue, roiling sickness in his gut, disgust and dirtiness but no relief at the end. It felt worse, pleasure where there was violation, where there was meant to be none at all.

He couldn’t think. His thoughts were smeared into nonsensical, his body treacherous even as his mind cried out from the abuse. Silva’s mouth replaced his hand, bobbing and tongue rolling, suckling with hollowed cheeks. If the last time had felt like hours this felt like wretched eternity.

“Stop,” Q begged, so close to orgasm, as he bucked his hips. He felt like he was going insane; his throat and lungs whimpered and whined. “Stop, please, red, red, red.” Silva’s laugh reverberated through his cock and after the next far too long moment he caught the orgasm in the palm of his hand, pulses of come, and wiped it tenderly on the side of Q’s face and in his hair.

“Better!” Silva said brightly. “That was better.” He wiped his thumb across Q’s lower lip, then toyed with his hair, brushing it this way and that with his sticky fingers. “With a bit of practice I think you could become very good at this, yes?”

Q somehow found the muscles to shake his bowed head. His hands had gone numb, he realised distantly. Now that he’d broken his silence, he thought, he could reply and see if he could save a little dignity that way.

He could think of nothing at all to say. He wanted to crawl out of his skin, he wanted to curl up smaller and smaller until he didn’t exist.

Silva hummed as his hand reached out and slipped under Q’s shirt, rubbing his belly with the flat of his palm. Soft, gentle circles. The semen had dried, flaking with the motion, and Q’s skin shivered like a horse’s plagued by flies. He was wrung hollow, bone tired and hurting in all the wrong places, as if his skin had been rubbed raw and the flesh underneath beaten and bruised. Like his body had been forcibly rearranged and wouldn’t ever be right again.

The hand on his cock, placed there so delicately, felt like it was burning. Q flinched and closed his eyes tighter. He began to cry, wretched, ugly sobs, and Silva hushed him with a hand stroking a cheek and gentle noises. “Shh, shh,” he said, even as he thumbed a ring around the inside of Q’s foreskin. “There there. Shh.”

Q shook the hand from his face, but his hips felt too heavy to move. Silva’s hand began to stroke, as inexorable as it was gentle.


	3. Chapter 3

Hands pushed his waist and chest down; Q’s long fingers clawed at the bed sheets as Silva drove into him again and again, and from the agony of it he may have well been using a knife. Q screamed from the pain of it, like his organs were being cut through; he screamed from the sheer incomprehensible wrongness of the violation. There was nothing his mind could hold on to besides for the pain and the terror and the absolute need to get away. A hand clamped around the back of his neck to pin his face down and muffle his cries.

Q woke abruptly. He slid out of sleep without making a noise, without moving, but even as he lay on the mattress he could still feel hands clutching at his bare skin. The mind consuming pain was just a memory but his gorge rose anyway – the feeling of disgust enough to make him want to vomit lingered. Of their own accord his hands found his thighs, hair prickling, and he rubbed them through his trousers. Long, measured strokes, moving to the bony protrusions of his hips and then the softer curve of his waist and stomach, as if it could wipe away the false memory of Silva’s hands.

It couldn’t. Q stopped, fisting his shirt into cold fingers. He’d never had a dream like that before. Silly nightmares, yes, dark creeping things had haunted his childhood, of course – but he’d never dreamt anything quite so – well. Q stopped the thought and looked around his cell, peering up from his position on the bare mattress, which lay directly on the floor. It was as it had been when he’d been all but thrown in: bare walls, a squat for a toilet and next to it toilet paper, spaced out in a concrete and off-white tile room, lit with bright, fluorescent light tubes. The heavy door had full length bars in it. The mattress springs were, unfortunately but not surprisingly, the most technologically advanced items at his disposal. Or rather, those were the security cameras pinned high up in the corners of the room. He could no doubt reach them with the help of the mattress and some ungainly clambering, but suffering the uncomfortable knowledge that he was being watched by unfriendly eyes was better than the punishment that would undoubtedly arise from trying to meddle.

It was quiet. Q lay still, trying to listen to anything that might be useful, but heard nothing. The lights were too bright, hurting his dry eyes. He was painfully thirsty.

The memory of the nightmare rose in the lack of anything else to think about and Q pushed it away, suddenly furious. Nightmares – useless, stupid, emotional. Why the hell was he having them?

Why the hell was Silva keeping him here, not tortured – why had he, instead –

The thought stuttered and died and Q’s grip on his shirt tightened. He felt exposed as he lay in full view of the cameras, and wished, knowing it absurd, that they had provided something to cover himself with.

Why had Silva –

The humiliation coiled tight inside his guts writhed. He couldn’t even think about it. He got up and paced instead, the skin of his face and neck sensitive in the cool air. He’d scrubbed off the worst of his own come off, brushing the dried spikes out of his hair, but couldn’t decide whether he was more desperate for water to drink or to wash with.

At least the lack of water and food was predictable. He didn’t know how long he’d been captive for, but considering that he wasn’t dying of dehydration it couldn’t have been more than a couple of days. It felt like considerably longer.

The tight disgust in his gut, crawling across his skin, insisted that he wash. The pulsing headache and dizziness as he walked told him to take whatever dammed liquid was given to him, drink it and be grateful. The hunger gnawed but it was the thirst that was far worse, itching in his throat, making him want and desperately so.

Q sat back down on the mattress. He clenched his hands, rubbing his thumb across his finger’s joints until the pressure made them hurt. He wanted his computer, wanted to feel the keys beneath his fingertips. The absence was almost as aching as the dehydration.

There was a roll of skin on his bruised wrists, the top layer scraped from the flesh, and Q picked at it. His nails were blunt, and one of them had a blood blister under it – where had he got that? – but the skin peeled off eventually, leaving behind a ragged edged mark.

Q peeled at that too, until he reached raw flesh and the welling beads of blood smeared across his fingertips. It hurt. The blood blister was starting to sting as well, now that he’d noticed it.

His gut churned and his head ached. Sitting around in a cold room doing nothing, he could probably last for another two days. Q wondered what his self control would be like at the end of the first day and promptly felt another wave of sickly unease. No, this was not helpful. He’d be rescued, and while frankly embarrassing that was a hardship he could most definitely live with.

And when he got home he would sit down on the sofa with his laptop, turn the heating up and drink tea. He could even dig out his old teapot he knew he had somewhere. There was Parma ham in the fridge, and an avocado that needed eating. The bread would be old and he didn’t have any salad, though, and it entirely depended on what time he was rescued that he could manage the paperwork and debriefs before the shops closed.

Then again he had some chicken in the freezer. Or perhaps he would forgo food entirely and settle on just the tea and laptop. Maybe those tomatoes if they hadn’t gone off.

The footsteps outside in the hallway startled Q and he sat forward, then stood. As his vision danced with black spots and he swayed he regretted it, but clenched his jaw and stood still all the same.

It was Silva, expression calmly amused. It took only the briefest of split seconds for Q’s eyes to catch on the plastic bottle of water held loosely in his hand before he turns his gaze up to Silva’s face. The phantom touch of his dream, together with the entirely more real memories, returned to Q like a bucket of cold water.

The bottle was held out through the bars without a word and Q hesitated. If it was a trap it was an obvious one. He didn’t want to go near Silva. There could be any sorts of drugs or poisons in the water. He’d have to drink sooner or later, though, and if they wanted him drugged there were more reliable methods that were also far less pleasant than voluntary ingestion.

His mouth and throat were painful, raging with want for a drink. Could he rely on a rescue before he was forced to accept? Would Silva even let him refuse in the first place? He needed water to think and function properly.

Walking up to the door felt like walking towards a gun loaded and pointing straight at his face. He could feel, with desperate sensitivity, the hard floor under his shoes and the clothes against his skin, and the terrible closeness of the walls around him. The lack of anywhere at all to run.

He reached for the bottle and as soon as his fingers grasped the cheap plastic Silva’s other hand shot through the bars and grasped his wrist, tight. He pulled until Q’s shoulder jammed against the bars. Q bleated once in shocked horror before panicking, struggling uselessly against Silva’s greater strength – his mind was a blur of white noise, unable to think past stories of trapped animals that chewed their own legs off to get free, and how he’d scoffed at them once but wouldn’t ever again, not now when he could taste nothing but that consuming and wholly stupefying terror.

He stopped struggling, eventually, when his arm felt like it was about to be pulled from his socket and he was panting hard and fast from exertion as well as fear, coloured bright in embarrassment. He flinched back as far as he could when Silva licked the pad of his thumb and reached out to brush Q’s jaw with it.

“You missed a bit,” Silva said in explanation, still smiling. Close up he seemed to be gigantic.

Q struggled again, hating himself in the back of his mind for the lack of self control but not being able to do anything about it. He hated Silva for the ease at which he was held; he hated his own body for being so weak. He pushed against the bars with his free hand, with his knees, bracing against them until it felt like his whole body was bruised.

He was trembling when he fell still, no more free than when he’d started fighting. He didn’t look at Silva, who was silent as if waiting for something, but at the wall in front of him.

“I can see why you were let go,” Q blurted out, not thinking but needing to say something, anything. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to put space between them, to chew off his own arm to get away. “If your M.O. consists of nothing but sexual harassment.”

Silva laughed at that as if surprised – a low, unpleasant chuckle. His movement as he reached into a jacket pocket caught Q’s attention. “They say I was easily provoked, too,” he said conversationally, and held up a small penknife.

With a single movement he shifted his grip from Q’s wrist to his hand, holding his thumb out straight. Then he dug the blade under Q’s thumbnail.

Q’s choked gasp was as much shock as it was pain. He wrenched his arm back but Silva was using his weight to pin in at an angle between the bars, and he didn’t even look up as he worked the blade from side to side. There was hot blood on his fingers – Q could feel the knife scrape along the underside of his nail. He shut both eyes and mouth against the pain, and didn’t make a sound but ragged breath.

As soon as his hand was released Q jerked back bodily, banging his knuckles against the bars in his haste. His hand felt alight with pain and he clutched the base of his thumb tight with his fingers.

Silva didn’t move from his spot, flicking drops of blood off his knife and onto the floor without sparing it a glance. “You forgot this,” he said, proffering the bottle he still held as if they’d been exchanging nothing but small talk. Q took another step back, feeling trapped within his four short walls. He could feel the blood soak into the cracks between his fingers; the pain pulsated, throbbing in time with his head. The thought that Silva might unlock the door and come in was terrifying.

“Go to hell,” Q said, and would have said more had his voice not broke on the last word. Silva smiled apologetically, shrugged, and left. He took the water with him.


End file.
